keomaikalani











{March 10, 2014}   Day 1050

No words for what I’m going through, just songs, music, and a teeny tiny hope in miracles.

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Well here we are ladies–at The Corner Bakery Cafe in Fort Collins.  

OK, I realize you aren’t here, but if I can’t be with some of the smartest women I know because of distance and statewide boundaries, then I shall have to create a virtual space where we can come to hang out.  Lord knows we don’t have husbands or jobs that generate enough income to buy us plane tickets for weekends together in Vegas.

I’m forgoing my trip to the restroom to write this first post.  That makes me think of my fabulous teaching career.  I have a master’s degree, three teaching endorsements and a (mostly) successful work history and I make $33,500 a year.  I am on medical leave right now.  I think I burnt myself out.  Could it be that single parenting, working 80 hours a week (for 33,500 which equals about 8 bucks an hour), being taken advantage of by “friends”, watching both of my parents endure stage 4 cancer the past two years, having my ex-brother-in-law rip his children from our lives, having a sister who refuses to have a relationship with me, giving my offspring up for adoption, being in abusive relationships, losing my job because I followed the law and did the “right” thing, seeing that only men or women with men behind or beside them get to the top? Could it possibly be any of the above reasons that I am on medical leave?!?  Or maybe just the fact that I have a job making so little that doesn’t allow for bathroom breaks?  Ya, maybe that’s the reason…lack of access to the bathroom.

I don’t know.  I hate to sound dismal.  But it’s dreary and cloudy on an April morning.  Life feels daunting today.  Everything is grey.  My stomach hurts.  I still have to go to the bathroom.

My “real” friend showed up.  She’s married.  That’s hard for me to relate to.  It was my dream.

I’m making a new dream now.  I know that my life experiences are not just mine.  They belong to so many of the single mommy woman I know.  That’s why I’m here.  I want to find one phenomenally, successful woman who has children but never had a man to stand behind or beside her.  If I can find that one woman, I will follow her lead.  If I can not find her, then I will be that woman and I will drag all of my female single mommy friends right to the top with me.

That’s why I am here.

I’m going to write about our lives, our truth, as we have known it.



{May 3, 2012}   IMG_0387

IMG_0387What if ….



September 8, 2011
I am growing mold in my kitchen sink.  I would like to say that it is unintentional but how unintentional can a rotting tomato from the salsa I made two nights ago lying in my sink be?  I am downloading from my pathetic day–job at one of the top 200 schools in the country, one of the top 3 (or 20 depending on who you ask) in the state–drinking a glass of wine on top of my vicodin that will quickly run out.  Home from my 12 year old’s soccer game, listening to P!nk–almost 39.  The above is a precise definition of pathetic.  Oh, did I add single mom-never-been-married-desperate-for love-desperate to be loved by someone other than my offspring?
So, back to the molding tomato lying in my stainless steel kitchen sink.  It may as well be lying in my heart molding.  My heart isn’t stainless and it sure isn’t steel.  It hurts and I used to care who saw my tears.  Now, I’m approaching 39 and I have invested 6.5 years in a boy I loved who says he loves me and my son, but has chosen to leave.  Oh, did I mention that I used to play with this boy in Dryden Park when I was little?  these facts just make the mold moldier and the heartache hurt deeper (ew…is that cat poo I see in my periphial vision on my kitchen floor?).
I don’t care who sees my tears anymore.  I just don’t care–don’t care to maintain this image, this ficade, my masks of joy I have kept on to meet all the expectations.  I no longer care about the image.
(Water.  Where the heck is the water so I can wash another vicodin down?  It will bandaid this pain for a little while.  It will hold the tears and disappointment down.)
It’s not like I haven’t had a broken heart before.  In fact, I should have saw this coming–why should I deserve any less than the worst?  My life has been the prototype for being the last, the unheard, the lonesome, the misunderstood, made fun of, lost, rule breaking out ‘o the norm–I am the poster child of the 80’s–not too edgy, but not too popular.  so, it’s no wonder I’m sitting here alone, broken, lost, communicating with my computer and my kindred who is 10 years younger than myself.  I guess age and experience just goes to show, it doesn’t matter what era it is, we all bleed.
I have recently decided to rely on pills instead of people.  It’s not that I am hopeless or helpless.  I have tried–really, I have.  My entire life has revolved around putting everyone else first and helping the bleeding, no matter how much my own band-aid was needing a change.  I have failed and let down.  I have broken the unwritten rules of societal boundries that cause one human to walk away from another.  Did I mean to?  Heck no.  I didn’t know that people left–at least not permanently.  My parents never left and I thought my family never left, but I have recently learned that–people leave.  They give up.  They move on.  And while I have been waiting on the side lines my entire life to be pulled into the game, I finally realize that no one is going to ask me to play.  I am alone.  The boy I loved when I was 15 never loved me as much as I loved him.  The man I loved for the past 7 years loves me, but not enough to stay with my son and I.  I am sad.  I want to cry, but part of me, is just, dead.
So I make my 12-year-old son his quesadilla (no veggies included), I sip the last swallow of red wine in the house (this should be enough to buzz me through the eve with the one vicodin I have rationed for the day) and I get ready to serve his meal with a forced smile.  He is the only thing I live for.  If he weren’t here, I would not have a purpose.
Ten minutes ago he walked in the kitchen after taking a bath, after his soccer game.  He looks so much like Christopher now–Christopher and Me.  His face is thin.  His chin is squared.  His hair is dark, his smile turns downward–just like I remember Chris when I first saw him when I was 13.  But his face looks like mine–Chris and I together in this little man who holds me together–his sister looks the same–she came for a visit this past weekend.  Haven’t seen her in over 3 years but we picked up as if no time had passed at all.  She looks just like him, her brother, me, her dad.  I have created three little lives with a boy I loved, one dead, two living.  I have moved on, tried to love another, waited to be loved back, and I am still here, alone, waiting with my 12-year-old and my “crutch” that I hide from my son-the “crutch” I have hidden from everyone else since I was 15.  May he never find out and may someone come to help before it’s too late.
I am growing mold in my heart.  I will flush the mold down my garbage disposal and grind it away, but it’s not so easy with the mold in my heart.  Fifteen, I was 15 when it broke and yes, I expected someone to stay–I expected to be able to trust someone to help me throw this rotting aching tomato out of my chest.  I know I’m not alone.  There has to be someone else out there who feels my pain.


{October 13, 2011}   Mrs. Dalloway / Virginia Woolf

Mrs. Dalloway / Virginia Woolf.



{October 13, 2011}   Peter

You and I are so much alike.  I never realized it fully until today.  You are Peter Walsh and I am Carissa~Mrs. Dalloway.  Except that I never got married.  I guess that makes me Miss…Miss Nobody…



et cetera